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The Pauper Poet
"I never was good at writing. You have a million ideas and yet suddenly they're diminished to nothing as you try to get them from pen to paper and you end up telling your whole life story. But I guess that's just me, so don't expect as much from the account of I." Log 1 Not much can be said about myself. Days go on and you seem to forget whether or not it's tuesday, whether or not you've shaved in a while, whether or not you can remember your last meal. But then again, keeping track of time is such a tedious task. It seems like no matter what we do it keeps on slipping. I grew up in an orphanage. Unlike the others plaguing the city mine was relatively small. It was not overcrowded like the latter, and most likely not as unkempt or dismal. I didn't have many friends, I stuck to myself mostly and ended up watching the others as they played. They would, eventually, look down at me with quite some distaste, trying to figure out what was wrong with that little shy lad. Poking for fun, teasing, I got the short end of the stick as a result of my soft spokenness. Now that I remember, I recall being one of the shortest of the children out of all those in the orphanage, also the youngest. I wasn't very athletic, rather, not very fast, and, to my memory, not the easiest on the eyes. What little friends I had would come and go, and I'd eventually be left alone. But that was alright. I enjoyed my free time, my carelessness. I never really did mind having to be left to myself, and so I began to read books which would become my only companion throughout my childhood. But even then, my interest in literature stopped short as my eyes began to fail. The struggle to visualize a sentence outweighed the enjoyment, and so I quit all together. Now, of course, being some poor orphan with no money and no special talents meant that I could not, would not, afford reading glasses. Oh no, I would have to suffer and be forced to embarrassedly tap the shoulder of the nearest passerby so he or she could make out a word or image. Imagine a short, dirt-smothered street urchin pulling the end of your cape just so you could aid him in pointing out that that "w" is really an "n". Half the time I was ignored, assumed I was going to beg, or worse, accused of pickpocketing. If I had a sixpence for every time I felt the back of a man's hand whack against that of my fragile cheek in retalliation, then maybe I wouldn't be on every street corner beseeching for a stale loaf of bread and a shiny penny in which I'd compensate for a mug of cheap brandy. But, like I've said, that's just me. Poor little old me. Log 2 Weekly installment, to be written. Category:Literature